


we might fall

by crookedqueen



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Post-Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-02-03 02:38:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1728023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedqueen/pseuds/crookedqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian doesn’t have a breakdown in 4x12. Mickey takes his lover and runs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we might fall

> _Lying on the grass now, dancing for the stars._
> 
> _Maybe one will look on down and tell us who we are._

i.

The roadtrip is Mickey’s idea, but don’t fucking remind him of it. 

"I wanna do something nice," Mickey had dropped casually, pretending that it didn’t feel really fucking fantastic to see his carrot top’s face light up the way it did. "You know, since your whiny ass is constantly nagging about us being a couple." 

Ian bit down on his bottom lip, and Mickey nearly dropped his cigarette. Jesus. 

"Really?" Ian put on his best shit-eating grin.

Mickey smiled down at a burn mark on his thumb. “Yeah, man. Really.”

Ian, who stood much taller than him, poked his boyfriend in the side. “Really, really?”

"Jesus, fuck," Mickey tried not to laugh. He slapped Ian on the back of the head. "What are we, fucking twelve?" But the minute he slapped him, he cradled the boy’s head so gently it almost startled Ian. "Get your ass out of here, firecrotch."

Ian smiled, laughed through his nose. “Hey.”

Mickey glanced up. “What?”

Ian pulled him in for a kiss so quick, Mickey was almost left with whiplash. “Love you.”

This time, the cigarette really did fall, singeing Mickey’s left arm as he cursed under his breath, and Ian practically fucking skipped away, his head a red dot bobbing a few blocks down.

Holy shit.

ii.

The car’s ready, and Ian’s in too much of a good mood for six o’clock in the fucking morning. He darts in and out of the house, loads the trunk with every snack he can get his hands on. Kid says he even made a playlist for the occasion. Mickey’s tired just looking at his boyfriend.

And all the while, his hands shake in his pocket, blotchy inked fingers scraping against the fabric of his jeans.

"Yeah, you wanna fucking hurry up before the Wicked Witch of Russia comes out to bitch about this?" Mickey gestures to the car, glances down at the cracked watch on his wrist. "You really gonna eat all of this?" Mickey frowns, picks up a box of Cheetos in bulk. "What the fuck, Gallagher? Think the apocalypse is going to hit while we’re in Pennsylvania?"

But Ian doesn’t stop, just sprints up and down the stairs until Mickey’s sure he’s emptied out the entire fucking house.

"Ready?" Ian smiles, his eyes too wild, his breaths dragging in and out so fast, Mickey’s worried it’s only going to keep speeding up.

"You gonna calm the fuck down?"

"You going to let me drive?"

Mickey barks out a laugh, socks his boyfriend in the rib. “In your fuckin’ dreams, Gallagher.”

iii.

When they get in the car, Mickey takes a breath, leaves the key hanging in the ignition. 

He takes Ian’s hand and runs a calloused finger over three of the boy’s knuckles, really slow. He hopes Ian gets it.

Ian’s the only person in the entire fucking world who ever gets what Mickey’s trying to say.

iv.

They end up in some bumfuck motel en route to Pennsylvania. In all truth, he just wants to take Ian to Penn State, maybe get his boyfriend excited about the prospect of being in school again. In some weird, parallel universe that could’ve been something they’d do together.

Mickey smiles thinking about it: fondling Ian in the middle of class lectures, rooming together, late night study sessions…Oh God, what a fucking girl he is, getting hard about textbooks and coffees after class.

"What’re you smiling at?" Ian smirks as they turn into the Lucky Inn, half a shamrock dangling off a dangerously low sign.

"You, you fuckhead," Mickey laughs. "Getting excited about a shitty ass motel." Mickey passes a hand over his face, almost…embarrassed. "Look, man, I wanted to give you something better, but…I don’t see any fucking Four Winters out here."

"Seasons," Ian chuckles. "Four Seasons, Mick."

"Same shit," Mickey frowns.

"Hey," Ian says, sliding over on the seat. "This is ten times better than the Gallagher Circus. It’s you and me, out on our own in the middle of nowhere." In the dark, Ian’s bright eyes and stupid grin make him look like a little boy. It makes Mickey want to touch him, hold his hand, some stupid shit like that.

"Yeah, alright," Mickey amends, making sure his fingers brush over Ian’s when they’re hauling out the bags.

v.

Mickey can’t swim. 

He looks pissed as all fuck as Ian does a billion laps around the shady-looking pool around the back of the motel. He stays where his feet can touch the ground, and Ian looks like a fucking ginger fish as he swims circles around him.

"I’ll teach you," Ian calls out.

"Shut the fuck up."

"I will!"

Mickey’s not buying it. God made guys like him without gills for a fucking reason, thank you very much. He only compromises when Ian holds out both hands and helps him float around nine feet.

"Damn," Mickey says, staring up at the starry sky, a million specks that are meaningless on their own but, like Ian’s freckles, make up a goddamn grand masterpiece all together. 

"Yeah," Ian breathes. "Wow." He’s quiet for a minute and then, "Mick?"

"Yeah?" Mickey’s voice comes out all soft, and he hates it.

"You ever feel like you’re drowning?"

Mickey darts up so fast that he forgets he can’t swim and almost  _does_ drown. But Ian grabs hold of him just quickly enough. 

"Nah, man," Mickey says, treading carefully. He doesn’t like how serious Ian looks, knows he can’t play this off as a joke. "Not when I have Superboy following me around all the damn time."

Ian doesn’t laugh, so Mickey cups his face, careful to keep hold of the boy’s strong arm. He traces Ian’s eyebrow with the pad of his thumb, wills himself to say it, just say it.

"Look, you know I…" Mickey rolls his eyes at himself. " You know I fu - "

But before he can even finish his sentence, Ian’s sprinting to the other end of the pool, calling out that whoever makes it back to the room first is getting a surprise tonight.

Mickey murmurs every expletive in the book before he scales the pool wall and hauls his ass out.

vi.

The problem with Mickey is that he wants to be around Ian all of the time.

It’s just not normal. Mickey was born allergic to the idiots in his life. Everyone else pisses him the fuck off, but it’s like he can’t even bathe without dragging Ian in there with him. Can’t eat without splitting what he’s got with his boyfriend. Can’t sleep without Ian digging himself into Mickey’s back, draping a heavy arm over his own.

He’s an addict.

Addicted to redheads who talk too goddamn much and have better hearts than he deserves. Redheads who look really good in the shorts they’ve got on right now. 

Mickey licks his bottom lip, half-aware of all that Ian’s spouting out, some TNT show playing on the shit TV behind him as he knees the bed’s comforter, waves his hands like a cartoon character.

But if Mickey’s being honest, he really loves it when Ian talks to him, likes his quirky fucking ideas and the stories about his helicopter escapades. He likes it when Ian tells him how he feels about all the shit that’s going down in his life, Fiona’s probation, Lip’s new girlfriend, Carl’s, too. The boy talks himself tired until he’s curled up on Mickey’s chest, mumbling incoherent words against his skin.

And then Mickey realizes it.

"Sit up," he says.

Ian frowns. “But I just got comfortable.”

"Sit up," Mickey says, firmer this time. "It’s fucking important."

"Alright, what?" Ian sighs, shirtless and doofy as he drops his chin into his hand.

"Don’t say shit after I tell you, alright?"

"Tell me…"

"I love you, alright?" Mickey spits out. Red in the face, he rolls over and stares hard at the wall. "I like the way you fuckin’ smell, too."

Ian looks like he’s literally about to die happy. “You - “

"Shut up, douchebag."

"But you just - "

"We’re watching this," Mickey says, suddenly extremely engaged in an old episode of Rizzoli and Isles. "Look. Fucking lesbians. Perfect for tonight’s theme. Now sit your ass down and - "

The words are lost between Ian’s lips, Mickey’s resolve long forgotten when the redhead pins his hands down to the bed and squeezes tight.

The sky’s gone black, and Mickey still sees stars.

vii.

In one month, they’ll be back in Chicago.

In one month, Ian’ll curl into himself and refuse to eat, will sometimes forget to breathe.

Mickey will spend some nights sitting in the bathroom with his palms pressed to his wet eyes, other nights fucking  _pleading_  his boyfriend to look at him the way he used to, stare at him hard enough and try to find little Ian Gallagher, who looked at Mickey as if he was the one who rose the sun every morning.

He’ll still be there, Mickey hopes.

In one month, the stars are going to burn so bright they start to fade. Mickey will fucking paint the sky if he has to.

Because right now, there’s a boy who’s got his hand in his, pointing at one of Penn State’s lion statues, smiling and squeezing and nudging, and it’s the best thing Mickey’s ever seen.

Because right now, there’s a boy who’s choosing to love Mickey Milkovich. 

Fuck anything that tries to take that away.

_fin._

 


End file.
